by Jay Allan
He glanced back at Fritz. “Put her on speaker, Captain.”
“Admiral…”
“Yes, Commodore. What is it?”
“I was talking with…Captain Fritz, and…”
“And, clearly the two of you are plotting something, so one of you come out already and say it.”
“We want to mine the space just this side of the transit point, Admiral,” Eaton blurted out. Fritz was standing in the same spot, nodding.
Barron looked at Fritz for a second, and then he adjusted the microphone on his headset. “We haven’t used mines in fifty years…” He found that he wasn’t sure whether to say ‘Commodore’ or ‘Captain,’ so he didn’t finish the sentence.
Mines had been a key weapon half a century earlier, one that had been extensively used to defend transit points against assault. But the Confederation had developed methods for sending out pulses from their ships that detonated the mines before a ship reached them…and it had taken Sector Nine less than a year to steal that knowledge for Union use. Within a decade, every Rim nation possessed the countermeasures to battle minefields…using the same technology that had rendered missiles ineffective in space combat.
“Sir,” Fritz said nervously, “this is only a guess, but just because we developed the technology to deal with mines doesn’t mean these people have. We don’t know much about the…Masters…” She said the word with considerable distaste in her tone. “…but it’s a reasonable guess that, living so close to the center of the Cataclysm, they haven’t had to deal with as many surviving neighbors as we have…or the number of desperate wars we’ve fought. Struggles like that are a catalyst for weapons development…one they might have lacked.”
“But their technology is ahead of ours.”
“Yes, Admiral, but that doesn’t mean they developed all the same things we have.” It was Eaton this time, and Fritz nodded as the commodore spoke. “We only developed our anti-mine tech because of our constant wars against the Union. If we’d been at peace for the past century, we might have developed different things…but we’d probably never have even researched countermeasures for theoretical minefields.”
Barron understood what his two officers were saying, but he still wasn’t convinced. “But, their technology is clearly sufficient to develop the same countermeasures we did.”
“Yes, sir,” Fritz said, “but not before this coming battle. We’re not suggesting we have a long-term edge against the Masters…but we just might have a way to get a jump here and now.”
Barron was beginning to agree…and he was ready to take any advantage he could get. “But, we don’t have mines. As far as I know, the Confederation hasn’t produced any in more than forty years.”
“I…ah…well, sir…I cobbled some together.” Fritz stood where she was, but she didn’t look directly at Barron.
“You what?”
“Well, Admiral…you did put me in charge of fleet engineering…and we do have a lot of extra equipment and such, especially on the supply ships.” She paused. “I managed to put a hundred and twenty mines together…not enough for a proper field, but the way I see it—the way Commodore Eaton and I see it—any of those ships we can take out, or even damage, is worth the effort.
Barron looked back at his engineer, amazed not at her suggestion, but that somehow, despite all the miracles he’d seen her perform, he still managed to underestimate her sometimes. “Do it, Fritzie…and Commodore.” He paused, holding back a smile the best he could. “Fritzie, you get those mines ready to go. If we’re going to get them in place before the enemy transits into this system, we don’t have much time. Sara…this was your idea, too, so you figure out the positioning. Put them wherever you think they’ll do the most good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two answered, almost simultaneously.
“Then get it done.” He turned and shook his head, once again grateful for the people he had around him.
* * *
“Why is it always you?” Stara Sinclair almost always kept her emotions in check, but not now. Stockton hadn’t expected her to like his plan, but he was surprised when she blew up at him. She’d calmed down some since then, but she was still clearly upset.
“You know why it’s me, Stara.” Stockton understood her reaction, at least he thought he did. He didn’t suspect it was easy to be in a relationship with him, especially considering his reputation for what people had charitably described as craziness. He’d been wild as a younger pilot, even he could admit that. But he’d grown out of that—and was promoted above it, too. Aside from using training missions as an excuse to get into the cockpit and do some flying around, it had been two years since he’d done anything really dangerous. Then, suddenly, he realized. Stara had been steeled up to face the realities of war back then, but now, the new threat was just sinking in. She didn’t have her defenses up, and the idea of him blasting through the transit point to stand alone before an entire attacking fleet, and to try to slip away at the last second, was too much for her to accept.
But, she didn’t have a choice. Stockton had told Admiral Barron he would do it, and that was the last word as far as he was concerned. Even if he hadn’t promised the admiral, he understood the threat menacing the fleet, the danger the entire Confederation and all of its neighbors faced. He agreed with Barron, and with the Palatians. The best thing the fleet could do was give this new enemy a bloody nose. Hopefully, it would make them rethink things, bring them to the bargaining table…and even if it didn’t, it would give them pause, buy some time. His mission was the best way to accomplish that, maybe the only way.
Close-in transit point defenses were rare in war, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was, without knowing an attacking fleet’s vector and velocity, it was impossible to place defensive ships. A force could deploy right at the point, only to watch a fleet come through at 0.01c and zip past and out of range in a matter of seconds. But Stockton could scan the approaching fleet, and the longer he stayed—the closer he cut it—the better and more accurate his nav information would be when he zipped back into Zed-11 and sent his report to the fleet.
Stara was silent as the two walked down the corridor and out onto the landing bay. She’d argued with him, but even when she’d been most upset, he was sure she knew he had to go. She was a veteran as much as he was, and she knew the stakes just as well. It hurt him to see how worried she was, how much his mission was hurting her. It was a long unanswered question…what is worse, to go into danger, or to wait to see if a loved one returned? He didn’t pretend, even to himself, that he had any great wisdom in such matters, but he knew that mystery didn’t apply here, not really. Stara wouldn’t be safe on some well-protected planet somewhere…she’d be at her station on Dauntless, going into battle with the rest of the fleet. And, he was damned committed to do whatever he could to gain the edge, help the fleet win that fight. Help Dauntless make it through…and Stara.
“I’ll be back…I’m always back.” He’d said such things all his life, but now it even sounded hollow to him. He’d seen too many people die. One day, he suspected, he would leave after spewing that kind of bluster…and he wouldn’t come back.
But that’s not this time, he told himself. If he didn’t get back, he couldn’t report…and if he didn’t report, Barron wouldn’t know where to position his ships.
He stopped next to his fighter, scanning it quickly, his eyes going to the modifications the engineering teams had quickly made. She was like a bird he’d flown once before, on an even longer mission. She carried twice the fuel of a normal Lightning, and a host of extra scanning and communications gear.
All that came at a cost, though, and in this case that was weapons. All of them, even the targeting computer. He was going to fly his fighter and hold his ground right in front of the enemy fleet…and he wouldn’t have a laser hot enough to light a candle.
He turned toward Stara. “I’ll be back…” He almost said, ‘I
promise,’ but he had enough of the pilot’s superstition left in him to hold back, not to tempt fortune’s wrath. “I love you,” he finally said softly. “Now, why don’t you get back to the control booth and take me through the launch sequence?”
She looked back at him, her face still, clearly struggling to hold back her emotions. “I love you, too,” was all she said. Then she just turned and left, heading back to launch control.
Stockton watched her go, just for a few seconds. Then he turned and climbed up the ladder and hopped into his cockpit.
He regretted the fact that the fleet had found a new enemy, that the peace his comrades had enjoyed for two years had been shattered. But as he sat in the confines of the fighter, waiting for Stara’s voice to come on the comm, he had a thought…one he found disturbing, but also one he knew was true.
It felt like home.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cellar of a Non-Descript Warehouse
Spacer District, Just Off the Promenade
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
315 AC
Andi felt pressure against the skin on her arm. Devices like the injector were normally painless, but her captors had worked her over so many times that every square millimeter of her body was sore. The tiny pinpricks only inflamed the pain she’d been feeling more or less constantly for weeks now, and she cried out, hating herself for giving the bastards the satisfaction. She was ready to tell them whatever they wanted to know to get them to stop, even without the drug, and that realization had shattered her sense of self-worth. She’d liked to believe she was unbreakable, that no enemy could shatter her will to resist, but now she only wished she had something, anything to tell them, just to end the torment…even though she doubted they’d stop even then. None of that really mattered anymore, except to feed her self-loathing. She didn’t know anything, at least nothing they seemed to be after.
The pain in her arm spread, and she realized it was the drug, moving through her bloodstream. It wouldn’t kill her, she was sure enough of that, but Lille’s words echoed in her head, and she imagined herself a vegetable, or a meek, useless shell of what she’d been, stripped of everything that had made her who she was. Better to die, far better. She regretted that she hadn’t fought back harder when she’d had the strength, forced her captors to kill her…but then, that would have been a form of surrender, too, at least while there had still be a chance for her to escape. Or for Gary Holsten to find her.
Even as she thought of Holsten, she heard sounds, banging at first, and then gunfire. She was dreaming—she was sure of it—imagining the rescue attempt she’d waited and hoped for. But, she didn’t believe it anymore. Her captors were too good. Indeed, Ricard Lille was the best Sector Nine had.
I guess I should feel honored…
There was more gunfire now, some kind of automatic weapon, and then an explosion, one that sent a cloud of dust dropping from the room’s low ceiling.
For an instant, she was confused, surprised at how real her dream seemed to be…and, then she realized…
It’s real. There’s some kind of fight going on.
She opened her eyes, tried to focus. Everything was a blur. She’d been in bad enough shape, but now she could feel the drug taking hold. Even as she realized there was a battle in progress all around her, that perhaps Holsten’s people had finally found her, she felt herself slipping from reality, her perceptions drifting away.
She struggled to pull herself back, to hang onto what little remained of herself. She turned her head, slowly, painfully, and she closed her eyes tightly, opening them again and squinting, trying to see what was happening.
The sounds of fighting were louder now, closer. And she could see the agent in the room with her, staring at the stairs leading up from the cellar where she’d been held. Lille…
Her eyes caught her tormentor, even as he ducked into a small door, barely a meter high.
An escape route. No…you don’t get away. You don’t survive, bastard…
But she knew there was nothing she could do, even as her hatred for Lille gave her flagging energy a boost. She was still looking when he turned around and gestured to one of the men standing in the room. “Kill her,” he said.
The words echoed in her ears, in her mind. She could barely keep her thoughts functioning, but she’d heard Lille’s command, and she knew what it meant. She tried to get up, to lunge toward her captors…her executioners, but there was nothing. Her legs wouldn’t move, nor her arms. The drug had her almost paralyzed. All she could do was shift her head to the side…enough to see the arm of one of the men rising…and the pistol it held.
She struggled to move, to force her body forward, a last lunge at her killers, a death as a fighter, resisting to the last and not an animal, led to slaughter. But her muscles didn’t respond, and she sat frozen, helpless as the man pointed his pistol.
And fired.
At least she heard the gunshot…but she didn’t feel anything. She waited for her body to fall, for the pain, for the blood pouring out of her…for death to take her. But then, there was another shot, and another. Still nothing. She just sat where she was, paralyzed, but still looking out over the room…and watching as her would-be killer fell forward, landing face down, his gun skittering across the floor.
There were more shots now, automatic fire, and all around the room she could see shadows, and then people, figured dressed in some kind of combat fatigues, with heavy body armor. Soldiers of some kind…no, those are Confederation Marines…
She felt herself slipping away, the drug sapping what remained of her strength. She tried desperately to cling to consciousness, to call out to whoever was attacking her captors. But there was nothing left, nothing but the growing darkness.
* * *
Gary Holsten stood in the hospital room, looking down at the figure in the bed. He’d always liked Andi Lafarge, and respected her, too…her independence, her drive, the raw intelligence that was so much stronger than anyone—almost anyone, at least—knew. She was as close to him as anyone was, save perhaps Van Striker, and he was aware just how important she was to another of his most important friends, Tyler Barron.
He’d recruited her because he trusted her, both her loyalty, and her ability to handle any crisis she encountered. She’d been up against danger most of her adult life, and Holsten had truly believed he could keep her safe on Dannith.
But he hadn’t expected Sector Nine, or whatever they called themselves now, to have recovered so quickly…and he certainly hadn’t bargained with Andi meeting an adversary like Ricard Lille almost immediately after arriving on Dannith.
Holsten knew Lille, at least he knew of the shadowy Sector Nine killer. Lille was Gaston Villieneuve’s right hand, and based on what little intel Holsten had managed to gather on the mysterious assassin, the two men were actually friends. He still believed Andi could have handled almost any agent she was up against, but Lille was something entirely different. For all her adventures, and the fights and dangers she’d faced, Andi was new to espionage…and Ricard Lille was, by all accounts, the very best on either side.
He was still watching her, as he had been for hours now, when she finally stirred. She was hurt, badly. Broken ribs, a shattered ulna, internal bleeding, a ruptured lung, more contusions than he could easily count…the list went on and on. But all of that was treatable. It was the drug that worried him, the one they had given her. It had wreaked havoc on her system, and for a while he had worried there would be brain damage. But the doctors—and he’d rounded up every surgeon and physician on Dannith worth the name, bringing some of them to the hospital along with a Marine escort—had assured him they’d intervened in time. She would be groggy, and there would be more pain. But she would recover…completely.
He was relieved, but, looking at her, he still had trouble believing it, and whatever the long-term prognosis, he knew his friend had an extended and painful recovery ahead of her. And, he knew it was his fault.
>
“Gary…” Her voice was thin, labored. She looked up at him, her eyes cloudy, unfocused.
“I’m here, Andi.” He tried to sound strong, to keep the regret and sadness from his words. She didn’t need that now. She needed a hand she trusted, one that could lead her back. The doctors might save her life, bring her back to physical health, but Holsten had seen enough broken, tortured agents to know that Andi faced other challenges. She would need support, people she trusted and who cared about her. Most of all, he suspected, she would need Tyler Barron…but he had been one of the prime movers in sending Barron hundreds of lightyears away. It would be months before he returned, even years.
“Thanks…for…rescuing…me…” He could see her trying to move her head up, extend her arm toward him, but she gave up and let both drop back to the bed, wincing in pain.
“You have to take it easy, Andi. You’re going to be alright, as good as new.” He wondered if his words were empty, or if he truly believed she was strong enough to find her way back. He was scared for her, cautious…but he knew better than to bet against Andi Lafarge. “You’re going to have to rest.”
“Tyler?”
Holsten sighed softly. “He’s with the White Fleet, Andi. You remember…”
She looked confused for a moment, but then she nodded, or at least something close to a small nod. “White Fleet…yes, I…remember.”
“Andi, you’re going to be in the hospital for a while, but I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He turned and gestured to an armed woman in combat dress and armor, standing just inside the door. “They’ll be a squad of Marines on duty here, and outside your room around the clock. No one will hurt you again.”
She looked at Holsten, and he could see her eyes were a little brighter than they’d been. “Thank you…Gary.” Then, she stared at him for a for a few seconds, a look of clarity replacing the confused expression she’d worn since she’d awakened. “Not…your…fault…”